


Ultra ★ Lucky

by Savorysavery



Series: Our Star Crossed Love [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Kissing, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Despair, Romance, Slash, Smut, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savorysavery/pseuds/Savorysavery





	Ultra ★ Lucky

**Summary:** Your name is Komaeda Nagito, and you are very, very lucky.

 **Genres:** Romance, Smut

 **Rated:** Explicit

 

 **Author's Note:** This is my first time writing for these very troubled boys, but I think I enjoyed it. I'm a fan of both Nagito and Hajime: they're two sides of the same coin, and while they are deeply affected by Despair, they're also capable of healing and turning back towards the light. I suppose that thought influenced this piece. I hope you enjoy my first try at komahina.

 

* * *

 

 

Your name is Komaeda Nagito, and you are very, very lucky. So lucky that you’ve found yourself in _quite_  the situation: next to  **Hinata Hajime** , who fills you with hope.

It’s the kind of orgastic feeling you want to never fade: a brightness that pierces through all, pushing away stress, pushing back sleepless nights, refilling and refueling your spirits. And it’s all **yours** , you see, because you two are **boyfriends**.

Ah yes, you are **boyfriends** , the kind that have grown quite intimate. It’s an intimacy that you have shared for years, from within the simulation to awaking from your coma. Hajime is still the first person you recall seeing, a wan figure with knee length hair and red eyes, a jarring sight from the soft male inside the game.

Even now, you still see that: Hajime has grown his hair back out again, so it’s shaggy, down to the middle of his back. He hasn’t said why, and you don’t ask, so long as he still responds to **Hinata**  and not **Kamakura**. His eyes, fortunately, are still the same: dark, green and wide, and they’re looking at you right now, curious and a bit hazed over, and suddenly, a piercing **despair**  fills your gut.

Hajime tilts his head, and it makes his hair shift, and he turns in the bed, biting his lip. He looks shy, suddenly, and you see that it’s not a bad haze in his eyes: it’s **want** , and **desire**.

“C-Can... can we...?” Hajime’s voice trails off, and he motions with a hand, tucking a long lock of hair behind his ear. He looks left, right, left again, then sighs. “...Have sex?”

You perk up, eyes widening, and sit up a bit. “With me?”

“You’d be the operative **we** ,” Hajime replies. “I certainly didn’t mean my hand.”

“I just... Well,” you reply, and it’s not well to the sex: you have plenty of that. It’s seeing Hajime look so **vulnerable**  in this moment, so **open** and **wanting** , that it’s throwing you off.

You see, you’re supposed to be the one asking: you typically are because you’re **greedy**  and you like that about yourself. It’s one of the things you loved rediscovering: your **want**  to **devour everything** , so polar to playing martyr so many times before. It’s no different with Hajime: you might have restraint to a degree, might not always care for yourself still -habits take longer to break-  but you know how to get yourself off, and you know what Hajime likes.

You, of course: it’s mutual, **hopeful** , love.

Yet Hajime rarely asks you to have sex, rarely manages past a shy stuttering that leaves you to guess. Normally, you’re accurate: you can tell when the flush on his face is genuine embarrassment or heat, when it’s lust or shy nature. Yet now, seeing him look at you so genuinely, so longingly has you wet and **hard** , ready to get down to business.

You lean in and kiss him, trying your luck, and he responds eagerly, kissing back, tongue sliding along your bottom lip until you gasp, parting your lips to let Hajime in. Once he is, you don’t regret it: it only gets you **harder** , makes you want him **more** , and in that moment, you want to devour Hajime’s entire world.

It’s an easy matter to shift him around, get him up and on his knees, and then you’re **sucking hard** , mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, suckling and **lapping**  until he’s **fucking your face**  hard, like you two haven’t touched or done this hundreds of times.

It’s always like this with Hajime: new, fresh, like you’re still two randy teens. In a way, you are: you spent three years **not acting out your lives** , locking in a state, trying to flush out Junko Enoshima’s black tar **despair** , and all those memories of touches are just that. **Memories** , but not motor skills, and so you have kept playing out this same scenario, the beach setting still the same.

Waves crash outside on the island, and you hum, hollowing out your cheeks as Hajime continues to buck down into your mouth, and you chuckle, closing your eyes and letting him use your mouth. This is old habit: you being a **conduit** , but it’s different. You **want**  this: it’s no **stepping stone** place. You want Hajime like this, all moans and bucking and sweat, body shaking as you suck, **suck** , suck him until he’s coming.

He slides from your mouth and you swallow, licking the salt from your lips, and you know you’re not done: at least, you **personally**  aren’t because you’re horny and hot and feel itchy, and want to get rid of that feeling in the best way. Hajime knows it to because he sways his hips, bucking against the air, looking over his shoulder and that dark, nut brown hair, eyes half closed, lips parted and **slick**.

Something changes and Hajime's hand slides down his left side, caresses his hip, and slips his hand between his buttocks, index finger **pressing** against the tight pucker of his hole. He lowers his shoulders, lets the bed shoulder his weight, and you see him **spread** himself for you, cheeks red. He presses that finger down and it slides in easily, comes out slick, and goes back in again, and for a moment, you let Hinata Hajime  **fuck himself** on his fingers, mewling as he gets hard all over again.

“I prepared myself, so...” His voice trails off and the shyness returns, and you try to think of when he could have done that: you showered together, ate together, and pretty much are together most of the time. That thing kind of happens when you live on an island primarily alone: save for seeing the others, they’re alone, living out their lives in **solitude**.

But honestly, you’re not going to pause and think of when your **boyfriend prepared himself**. You’re going to take it in stride and **fuck him hard**.

You slide in without a condom -you’re practically fluid bonded now, and since it’s just you two, you kind of said “fuck it” a few years back- and you go in past that sweet **tightness**  that never seems to go away. You feel Hajime clench, see his back bow as he pushes back against you, and you feel warmth clamp all around you. It makes you let out a keening cry that fills the room, and you both **pause** , because if either of you move, it’ll be over **too soon**.

Eventually, after a stretch of **forever** , you move, and it’s **so. damn. good.**  because Hajime is **so. damn. tight.**  and you’re one right now, shifting back and forth, hips canting and hands grasping, your finger threatening to dig into his hips and **break him in half**. You’re panting heavily, hair sticking to the nape of your neck, and Hajime is bucking and panting too, his long hair sticking to ever bit of tacky, sweaty skin.

It’s this moment, this **joining** , that you love: being connected to him outside an apparatus, outside of a **game**  that you enjoy. It makes all the **despair**  you waded through -even though you realized it midway- feel like it wasn’t **worthless** , makes Hajime even more important, your poison of choice that you’d **always drink**.

Hajime is thrusting his hips back now with more **vigor** , canting them, and you hear him whisper your name, a huff of breath that says, “ _Nagito, please”_ over and over again in a **despairingly**  hurried tone, as if he’s nearing his peak, and is soon to fall. A bit of hope is lose then: hope to keep your activities going for longer, more specifically, but it brightens once more when you realize that, ultimately, this was the goal.

 **Falling together**.

So you fall, thrusting a few more times, until Hajime is coming on the sheets, hips bucking wildly as you assault his prostate until he’s screaming, writhing and moaning with abandon. It keeps you going until he’s sobbing and you’re sobbing and you’ve both come again, a tangled mess of twenty something year olds, laid out on a California king of a bed.

You take a moment: inhale, exhale, cough. Inhale, exhale, turn your head. Hajime is laying there, his eyes wide, still tinted red. It jars you, even after all these years of **peaceful island life**  because you still see those dangerous hints of Kamakura, still at the edges of the smile that’s forming, and you wonder if your luck is enough to push that away. It pushed back the frenzy of your mind, ebbed away the dementia: surely, you can extend that piercing hope to Hajime.

And it does.

The smile changes, and softens, and you only Hajime: only that **beginning** , orgastic and true, and you realize that yes, your luck is at play, but it’s more. It’s that Hajime is fighting to be himself, is fighting that **black pool of despair**  inside himself, and is living in this very moment.

“Hey,” Hajime said, and he sounds tired: good tired, lazy, sunny day tired, the kind of tired that means you’ll meander around the bed, fingers playing and stroking.

“Hey,” you reply, and you shift your hips, pulling out with a soft sound, and sigh, relaxing onto the side in full, legs akimbo. Hajime chuckles at nothing -he does that a lot, and you realize its a nervous tick- and you raise your eyebrows in silent question.

“I’m good,” Hajime says, and you see it’s true: see it in that hint of red shine, in those largely green eyes, in the sweet, shy smile. You feel it in the way his hand reaches out to tug you close, to hold you tethered **right there**  because you’ll be damned to let go. “I promise.” He exhales and looks at you with clearer eyes, all sweet pea green and light. There’s a beat of silence, then he speaks. “I think I’ll go to the store and get some new scissors tomorrow and cut my hair. Wanna help me get my **ahoge** back?”

It is in that moment that you feel that shine again, that you feel hope replenish itself within you. And there’s not that dark urge for despair, the want to see **the fall**  before **the rise**. There’s just you and Hinata Hajime and the island breeze brushing against the window, the always prevalent scent of salt stuffing itself up your noses, the buzz of a plane circling overhead, the aircon humming in the bathroom, and you’re **pouncing**  on him, peppering **kisses**  all over every inch of skin, ignoring the slick feel of drying sweat, devouring the giggles that fall from Hajime’s lips. You’re so **happy**  that you can’t contain it, and it spills over, a tilted cup

Goodbye, **despair**. Hello, **hope**.


End file.
